Reality
by Charis M
Summary: “She is suddenly awkward, somewhere between the politician she’s been all day and the woman she’s let herself become in these minutes, unsure which she can allow herself to be now.”  Two worlds collide. Spoilers for Colonial Day.


**Reality**  
by Charis

_Disclaimer: Battlestar Galactica and all associated characters belong to people who are not me. I'm just borrowing._

_Notes: A present for my shoulder devils on the Roslin list: procrastination tastes like fanfic. Written to mariachi music (I hate my neighbours). I tried to make it go another way, but it refused. I think this is my obligatory Colonial Day Roslin / Adama pairing piece._

They dance.

"Your crew are staring, Commander," she murmurs, as she catches the poorly-hidden looks that slide away from them. The coolly analytical politician in her has already considered the ramifications of dancing with him, had weighed them before she even placed her hand in his, but while she can never step away from the politician fully, there's a moment now where she can be a woman again, just for a little while.

"Do you mind?" he asks, something like humour in his voice, and she shakes her head, letting him guide her. The motions are dimly familiar, remembered from a world that is a lifetime away, a myriad of political gatherings like and yet infinitely unlike this. Her eyes half-close; like this, aware of only the music and warm hands and a gentle sway, she can forget, for just a moment, reality.

Just for a moment ...

The music slides to a conclusion, and she wants to cling to the moment, but the tempo changes as it segues, and the faster beat is something for the children around them. She is not old, but she is dying all the same, and this is no world for her.

"If you don't mind," she says as they remain motionless after the downbeats, "I think I'd like to sit this one out."

Adama smiles, the expression unexpected, and escorts her back to the table and her security detail. "Then you've spared me making a fool of myself," he counters in a bemused tone, and she follows his gaze to where Valerii and Gaeta are doing some complicated manoeuvre that matches the music seamlessly. It's enough to make her smile as well, not the careful meaningless smile she uses so often these days, but something more genuine.

He's been kind tonight, to her surprise; she had expected distaste at best, that her actions would disgust him enough to ruin the nascent rapport between them even more than her mistrust earlier had. But he's been understanding, moreso than she thinks she deserves right now, when she doesn't quite understand or even like herself.

"Thank you."

The words slip out unbidden; evidently he expected them as little as she, for there is mild surprise in his gaze as he looks back at her. His eyes, she notes almost absently, are very blue in the dimness and the light of the candle on the table; it's easy to miss such things in the harsh artificial lighting of the majority of the ships. What else has she missed, busy looking at the unforgiving details bright light reveals?

He inclines his head, gesture of gratitude in turn. She is suddenly awkward, somewhere between the politician she's been all day and the woman she's let herself become in these minutes, unsure which she can allow herself to be now. The first is safer; she feels her smile shift, become taut, and curses herself for the shadow that flickers across his features (or is it a trick of the light?) before he, too, assumes a more professional mien.

_In another world,_ she thinks, _another time, another place - but no._ She has no time for regrets, or she will drown in them as surely as she may in the dreams and visions she fights, the uncertainties that plague her, the duties which become more painful with each turn. She looks away from him, and her eyes find Baltar on the dance floor, dancing now with a redhead in low-cut blue. No time indeed, for regrets or for second-guessing.

"I think I'm going to leave the festivities to the younger crowd," she hears herself say as she rises. He stands too, quickly, ever the gentleman (and she thinks suddenly how incongruous that is, when she and he have argued so vociferously in the past, and he has been anything but gentlemanly then).

"May I escort you back to your shuttle, Madam President?" he offers, and extends his arm. She forces her smile not to waver - political, she has to be political, and with both Thrace and Apollo out on the floor, she has lost her erstwhile military security - and rests fingertips lightly on the grey wool.

They walk out into the false night of the Cloud Nine, her personal security before and behind. There is something about it which puts her on edge, something which feels wrong, but when she realises what it is, she laughs in spite of herself, soft and self-mocking. Adama glances down at her quizzically.

"Just thinking how sad it is that this," she gestures around them, "is unusual. The air's moving."

"The recyclers are built differently for ships like these," he answers, which only makes her shake her head slightly as she looks up to meet his eyes.

"No; it's not that. But then again, a ship _is_ normal for you."

A sound that might be affirmation. They walk a little further; her heels echo against the flagstone stairs.

"There's times I envy you," she admits, and now her voice is deliberately quiet; she doesn't want anyone else to hear the admission of weakness. The president, she learned from Adar, cannot afford to be less than superhuman, except to closest associates. It's almost funny that this man is hers, except that it isn't at all.

"For being used to these sorts of things?" He takes her silence as agreement and gives her a truth in turn, "If this all hadn't happened, and I'd actually retired, I'm not sure what I'd have done. Planetside never felt right after being up here."

"You all live in another world." It's musing aloud, a realisation she's never quite grasped before, though people have tried to make it clear to her, and she stops suddenly. The differences run deeper than military versus civilian; perhaps some of her discomfort with him, some of her need to push to see just where her power is, lies in the fact that this is _his_ territory - at least more than it is hers. She tilts her head back, looks up at the false stars in here, and wonders why, even after that discovery, it seems odd to her that they twinkle. She has grown used to unwavering pinpricks, not these hazed, changeable lights.

He stops too, turns towards her, and when she lowers her attention from the sky, she sees a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Is this the borders between worlds, then?" His voice is low; the gravely rumble sends a sudden shiver down her spine (or maybe that's just the breeze here - but the air is still). She finds she cannot look away, finds herself suddenly, unreasoningly nervous.

"Commander -" But she's not sure what she would say if she went on, or what she wants to say, and so her mouth snaps shut. Pride compels her to straighten, lift her chin slightly; she is nearly his height, but instead of making her feel any better, that only makes her aware of how close he is right now.

In another world, she leans forward slightly, and her fingers tighten on his uniform sleeve.

In another world, his hand shifts to the small of her back and draws her closer still.

In another world, lips touch lips, briefly or for an eternity, here where their two realities mingle as surely as her breath and his when she opens to him, when her arms slide around his neck and she presses closer, when the fingers of his free hand lace through her hair and his tongue slides against hers and his mouth finds hers again and again and again, hot and hungry.

But here she remembers that her security detail is just beyond earshot, and she takes a half-step back. She closes her eyes briefly, seeking to find some composure - to remember who she has to be. When she looks at him again, it is the President whose eyes meet the Commander's.

"We'd better get moving," is all he says, but she has the feeling this is far from over.

_- finis -_


End file.
